Asylum
by Frieda van den Huetten
Summary: AU, in which Jack only exists in Rose's head and Cal has to face some unpleasant truths about his marriage. COMPLETE.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: This fic is not intended as a parody, although admittedly, its premise is weird enough for it. However, the point is that I tried very hard not to ridicule any of the canon characters and to make this as story as believable as I could, despite the oddity of this AU. But see for yourself... **

**G. W. Failure has proven once more to be a fantastic beta-reader. Thanks for your help and advice!  
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><p><strong>Chapter One<strong>

_A small town in the outskirts of Philadelphia, October 1929_

Cal made sure that the coast was clear before he hastily crossed the street. He was all alone. His shiny new Rolls Royce was parked a few blocks away and he had ordered his chauffeur and his valet to wait for his return. After all, he was one of the most influential business men of the 48 states, feared by a many and envied by even more. _And by god_, he wanted it to stay that way.

When he arrived at a ten feet high wall surrounding the stately mansion on the other side of the street, he slackened his pace. The massive iron gates that kept intruders out of the garden were closed. _Of course they were_. His heart began to quicken as he pulled on the rope, ringing the bell to announce his arrival. _Unfortunately, I'll be informing everybody within a one mile radius as well,_ he thought, gnashing his teeth_. With all the money that I pay them they could have at least installed an electric doorbell_.

He had to ring the bell three times more until the porky face of one of the employees appeared on the other side of the gate. It belonged to the janitor of this place, a stocky phlegmatic type of man in his late thirties. Unhurried, as if they had all the time in the world, he took out his key ring and started searching for the right one amidst the numberless small silvery keys that were attached to it.

"What's taking you so long?" Cal, who was used to see servants jump at his call, groaned in annoyance.

The janitor shrugged, not bothering to look up at their guest. "Well, there are a lot of keys." He was even slow when he talked. "I'm sorry, Mr. Hockley."

Cal's eye twitched. "Don't you ever call me by my name again before we're inside these walls," he hissed in a low voice and took a nervous look around at the still deserted street. "There are people in this town who know me."

The man looked at Cal unperturbed as if he was about to shrug another time, but then thought differently of it. "It won't happen again, Sir." The keys clattered as he continued examining them, one by one. "How's business doing?" he asked casually as if chit-chatting with wealthy businessmen was an integral part of a janitor's normal work routine.

Cal briefly wondered if the man was aware that he was the owner of a nationwide company that a third of all employable men of Pittsburgh received their paycheck from. He replied with a patronizing smile, "I lost a deal some days ago, but I don't think it will affect this year's overall performance. The stock prizes have boomed over the last year and have now stabilized on a high plateau. This is going to be the best year in the history of my company."

The janitor didn't respond anything more than "Uh hum," but at least, he finally managed to fish out the right key. Nevertheless, Cal didn't miss the confused and uncomfortable look on his face. Not that he had expected anything different. Cal wondered why he even bothered to talk to people like this man – dimwits who probably couldn't spell 'plateau', let alone grasp the principles of the stock market. Why did he have to put up with people of this sort?

_Because I married a woman who turned into a delirious nutcase,_ he thought bitterly and held his head bent like a sinner as he passed through the opened gate.

_And not any sort of delirium! Of all things to fantasize about, she thinks she's in love with another man. A steerage rat no less!_ Cal shuddered to think of the sunny morning not so long ago, when Rose informed her dumbfounded maid of her plans to start anew with a penniless artist as soon as the Titanic docks in New York. As any other mental disease _might_ have, though highly improbably, elicited sympathy from his peers, this lunatic idea would forever mark him and his family as the laughing stock of the East Coast if it became known.

"Did you come to visit your wife, today?" the janitor asked when the two of them made their way to the hospital's main entrance – Cal walking, him slouching.

Cal instantly had a bitter taste in his mouth at the thought of Rose in hospital clothing, bedraggled and unkempt like a harlot. "This is none of your concern but as a matter of fact, no, I didn't. I came here today because I have an appointment with her new physician."

"Ah, you mean the new shrink?" The janitor pulled open the heavy door of the main building. If it weren't for the bars at the windows one could have taken it for the rural mansion of an English lord.

Rose wasn't the only patient of this facility, but certainly the one with the richest and most influential husband - and most importantly, one who would have considered it an outrage _not_ to bring his influence to bear if he saw a chance to do so. His recent endeavor included the hiring of Prof. Steinberg, an iconic scholar of the University of Vienna and allegedly, a renowned expert of the human soul. He had started his work at the hospital two weeks ago and as soon as his first day at the hospital, Cal had told him in no uncertain terms via telephone that the treatment of his wife had absolute priority.

Now, the janitor pointed to a grand staircase. "The professor's office is on the first floor. I'll lead the way."

xxxxx

Prof. Steinberg was dressed impeccably, only a little old-fashioned in his attire, but not more or less so than you would expect from a person in his academic position. His well-trimmed grey full beard gave him a benign, almost grandfatherly appearance and an authoritative aura at the same time.

The professor's office was already completely furnished. The shelves were heavy with books of all shapes and kinds, many of them with foreign titles. A few books lay opened or closed on the solid mahogany desk, the centerpiece of the room. There must have been thousands of different volumes in this room but Cal was far from being impressed by their number as his wife's personal library easily matched this one in size and variety.

"Please take a seat, Mr. Hockley," the professor said with only a hint of an Austrian accent. "Can I offer you anything? Coffee, a cigar?"

Cal sat down on the other end of the professor's desk and opted for the coffee. "Agnes, two cups of coffee and my pipe," the professor called and shortly afterwards, a young nurse entered the room and placed a tray with the demanded objects on the professor's desk.

"I hope you don't mind that I smoke," Prof. Steinberg said after the nurse had left the room and began stuffing his pipe.

"Not at all," Cal replied.

"Nothing accompanies a cup of coffee better than a pipe. Besides, it helps me concentrate."

"I know of many men who feel that way," Cal answered politely and started unconsciously tapping his feet while the alpine miracle healer lit his pipe.

"So…" The professor began and then leaned back on his chair. "You came here on behalf of my evaluation of your wife's case?"

"I certainly didn't come here because I enjoy the janitor's wisecracks."

"I see," the professor said, "Let's talk about your wife then… Rose Hockley, patient since..."

"April this year. Seven months already," Cal interjected, stressing each syllable of the outrageously long period of time.

The professor drew on his pipe and nodded. Grey clouds of smoke curled out of his mouth and perfumed the air with their sweet smell. "Tell me about Mrs. Hockley's mother and father."

"What do you want to know?"

"How would you describe her relationship to her mother?"

"Ruth? She was an extraordinary woman from one of the most distinguished families. She was very close to Rose. Called her on the phone almost every day. Sadly, she passed away three years ago. This came as a terrible shock for my wife, so much that she was indisposed the day of her mother's funeral; struck with a terrible headache."

The professor opened a drawer of his mahogany desk and pulled out a small notebook and a pen. "And her father?" he asked after flipping the notebook open.

"I'm afraid I can't tell you much about her father since he died before I could meet him. From what I gathered about him, he was a reckless, irresponsible man."

Throughout the following thirty minutes Cal went into detail about what he heard about Mr. DeWitt Bukater and how this man had lost everything he owned, apart from the love of his only daughter of course, who idolized him beyond all reason, all of which the professor neatly summarized in three words that he wrote in his notebook: 'unresolved oedipal conflict.'

"If there is such a thing as a _cause_ for her illness, look no further than him. Him and her unhealthy obsession with these obscene paintings she collected among many other ludicrous things," Cal concluded.

Prof Steinberg nodded. "It certainly is part of the puzzle, but does it fully explain her current condition?" He relit his pipe before answering his own question, a small smile tugging on his lips. "I don't think so."

"Then what is it that drove her to insanity, in your expert opinion?" Cal asked with a hint of sarcasm in his voice.

"As I have been told, you never boarded the Titanic with her," the professor said, blatantly ignoring Cal's question. "What is your explanation for her condition? Why is she imagining sailing on the Titanic?"

"I'm afraid I can't follow you, Professor," Cal said, snorting. "You are looking for logic for where there is none. She is sick." He waved his hand in front of his head to strenghten his point.

"She obviously is. But this argument is misleading, because it relies upon its own proposition. She's ill, that's why she thinks she sails on Titanic. She thinks she sails on Titanic, that's why she is ill. We're stuck in circular reasoning. I was asking for the deeper causes. Why is she choosing the _Titanic_, of all things?"

"Why _Titanic_ you ask? Didn't they call it the ship of dreams?" He gave a quick and confident laugh, but his face looked as if he was in pain. "I'm convinced that every attempt to make sense of her insanity is bound to fail. Look, Professor, we didn't board the _Titanic_, because fortunately, she was fully booked when I arranged for our passage to the states. We left one week prior to her maiden voyage. When the New York Times proclaimed her sinking, we were back in Philadelphia already, safe and sound. One month later, I married her." They had traveled on the Mauritania, to be exact. Cal even had photos of it. But of course, Rose couldn't have been swayed from her conviction by something as ridiculous as evidence.

Mr. Steinberg cleared his throat before asking the next question. "Did she lose anybody she knew on Titanic?"

"Rose and I have met the Astor's and Benjamin Guggenheim on a few occasions, but they have never been close friends of either of our families."

The professor breathed out a couple of smoke rings and then looked at them pensively as they were slowly disappearing. "How did she react to the news of the sinking? Did you notice anything strange about her before the wedding?" he asked.

Cal sneered. "Ask me for one single moment of our engagement when she was not acting peculiar! I took her out for dinner to an exquisite French restaurant and she acted like she was going to her execution. I gave her a diamond of immeasurable value and she complained that it was dreadfully heavy." Cal's laugh sounded faint and out of place. He continued in a sober voice, "She was in constant complaint. Nothing was ever good enough for her. She was trying my patience and her mother's. Of course I knew beforehand that being married to a girl like her would not be a walk in the park. But she was a beauty beyond compare and I needed to claim her before anyone else could. She was melancholy, but I didn't pretend to know why. I think, I must have persuaded myself that she was still young and... _malleable_."

The professor lifted his eyebrows. "And? Was she?"

Cal took a deep breath before answering, "I made her my wife on a beautiful day in May 1912. She became a lot easier to handle after this step and one year later, she gave birth to our first son. And just like I had predicted, her stubbornness was just a phase. A childlike rebellion that lasted until she sailed into the haven of matrimony with a strong man by her side. After one year of marriage, she was the most docile and angelic wife one could think of. And she was beautiful. God, she was beautiful." Cal ran a shaky hand through his grey-streaked black hair.

Professor Steinberg frowned and scribbled down a few notes in German. "When did the hallucinations first present themselves?"

"Last April."

"What happened in April?"

Cal sighed exasperatedly. "Frankly, I don't understand why we're having this conversation. It's all in her medical files that your predecessor had so scrupulously filled. He would have made an exquisite secretary. This knucklehead has obviously missed his vocation."

"Indeed, her medical file contains more than fifty pages," the professor retorted matter-of-factly. "But as her new physician, I want to hear it from you for myself. Furthermore, I'm afraid my colleague might not have asked the right questions."

"Then would you be so kind to start asking the right questions, Professor?"

"I will." The professor leaned back and started blowing smoke rings in the air. When Cal was just about to complain again, he started to speak. "Did she love you?"

Cal's jaw tensed. "Pardon me?" He almost choked out the words.

"Did she love you? Was Mrs. Hockley – _Rose_ - ever as infatuated by you as you obviously were with her?"

"This is inacceptable! What an inappropriate question! I gave everything for that women!" Cal shouted, slamming his fist on the desk so hard that the porcelain cups clattered on the tray. "Do you have any idea what would have become of her and her mother if it weren't for me? They'd be dirt-poor and forced to live among the scum of the earth! I paid all their debts, almost a million dollars to be exact. And as if that weren't enough, I spoiled her excessively. All her rooms are stuffed with over-priced paintings and sculptures, one more grotesque looking than the other. And blind with love and genuine affection as I was, I spent a fortune on this bizarre collection of hers! I gave her what other girls could only dream of and more than she ever had before!"

"I see," the professor responded, his voice still as clear and calm as if he was inquiring about the most mundane subject in the world. "Did she enjoy the act of love, Mr. Hockley?"

"That does it!" Cal jumped off as if stung by a bee, knocking down the chair. "I had enough of this charade! This is outrageous! Is this the way you talk to my wife during your so-called therapeutical sessions?" He pointed at the professor menacingly. "If it ever reaches my ears that you're bothering Mrs. Hockley with such unadulterated filth, be warned, I'll sue you for quackery!"

Suddenly they heard a female voice call out, "Is everything all right, professor?" and a moment later, the young nurse ripped open the door. Wide-eyed, she looked from the old professor who was still sitting perfectly calm in his chair with his pipe in his hand to his slightly disheveled guest, hovering over the desk as if he was about to strike out.

For a few heartbeats, everybody stayed frozen to their spot. Then Cal came back to his senses. He swiftly stepped back and put up the chair he had knocked over.

"Everything is fine, Agnes. Now be a darling and go back to your room," the professor ordered.

"Yes, sir." The woman scurried out of the professor's office as quickly as she could.

After the door had clicked, Prof. Steinberg focused his attention on Cal who, meanwhile, had sat down again, straightening his suit and brushing back the hair from his forehead. "Are you feeling calm again, Mr. Hockley?"

Cal took a deep breath. He wasn't about to give a polite "Yes, Sir," like a little boy who had been called out by his headmaster for starting a fight on the schoolyard.

"Maybe we should resume this conversation another day," the professor suggested.

"No." Cal said without missing a beat. "I want to see my wife."

"I know that you haven't visited her in a while, but are you sure that now is the right moment to..." the professor began to say and for the first time, there was an edge of caution in his voice.

"It is." Cal looked the professor straight in the eye, unflinching. "I want to see her. I _demand_ to see her. Now."

_And I won't go until I have._

Professor and steel magnate stared at each other in silence for a few seconds. Eventually, Mr. Steinberg broke the glance and, with a sigh, drew on his pipe for the last time. After putting it in the ashtray, he called for the young nurse again. "Agnes! The keys, please!"


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Thanks for the lovely reviews! I hope this chapter comes up to your expectations.**

**And last but not least, thanks to ****DreamUpAReality****, formerly known as G. W. Failure, who kindly betaed this for me. Twice!**

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><p><strong>Chapter 2<strong>

Cal faintly heard his wife's beautiful singing voice behind the door to her room, and felt his mouth go dry. As Mr. Steinberg had remarked, Cal hadn't visited her in while - almost two months to be exact. _Too late to turn back now,_ he thought and cast an expectant gaze at the professor, waiting for him to take the helmet, as dealing with maniacs was obviously his field of expertise.

Rose's room wasn't locked. Only the corridor was. If she wished to, she could stroll around the hallway and regale other patients and the hospital staff with her fantastic tales. But most importantly, nurses could go inside quickly to check if she was alright. During the first months she had spent in the asylum, they used to check on her every thirty minutes, but since she hadn't shown any suicidal tendencies lately, it was decided to reduce the control visits to a minimum level.

With an almost solemn expression, Steinberg opened the door to his patient's residence, revealing a light spacious room with tasteful and expensive furniture.

Cal hadn't wanted to make her new residence look like a prison cell and had insisted to stuff it with all the fine things his wife was accustomed to, to the point where it had more in common with an upper class sitting room than with a hospital. Her room was splendidly furnished with sofas, chairs and tables in art deco style as this was the _dernier cri_ among the fashionable elite, to which Cal counted his wife, regardless of her mental state. She might be locked away in an asylum for the mentally ill, but she was still – and would _forever_ be - high class.

_Rose. _Reluctantly, Cal lifted his gaze to the mad woman, _his wife_, who'd once been the epitome of elegance and grace and was now stumbling from one wall to the other in a mad dance, whirling around like a clumsy dervish and laughing like an idiot. She looked like a drunken whore who had got lost in a fancy European hotel.

"Excellent work, Professor. I see she is _clearly_ on the mend!"Cal whispered to Steinberg, sarcasm dripping from his tongue. "I think I should present her to the Senator's wife at next week's autumn gala. I'm assured she's going to make an _extraordinary_ first impression."

"You are not seeing her, Mr. Hockley," Professor Steinberg retorted soberly.

Although they had knocked at the door several times before they had entered the room, it took Rose a while to become aware of the two men as she was so caught up in what she was doing. When she finally realized she wasn't alone anymore, she stopped in mid-movement, which almost caused her to trip and fall on the expensive Persian carpet. Her singing stopped a little later as if her voice needed more time to react than her body.

After she regained her composure, her eyes started gleaming with interest. "Nice to see you again, Professor Steinberg," she said excitedly and slightly out of breath, "And oh, hello Cal!"

Cal frowned. "She knows who you are?"

Rose answered at Professor Steinberg's place, in the same haughty, overly articulate voice she had always used when she had been displeased by him during the time of their engagement, "Of course I know him, darling. I enjoy talking to other passengers who are admirers of fine art."

"You... you two were talking about art?"

"Among other things, yes," came Rose's nonchalant reply. She took a seat at a small richly ornamented table in the corner of the room and motioned for the two men to join her. Her gestures were the ones of a spoiled rich lady, but Rose's tattered appearance made them feel grotesquely out of place.

After they had sat down beside her, Professor Steinberg was the first to speak. "I'm sorry, but would you be so kind as to tell me what the date is?"

"April 13th 1912," Rose answered with a smile. She had started playing with a lock of her red hair, twisting it around her finger. The rest of her curls was a knotted mess that looked like no comb would ever tame it again. Her complexion was as pale as oatmeal and Cal noticed with concern that she had lost weight since the last time he had seen her.

The professor nodded. "Uh hum. What would you say if somebody told you that today was Wednesday, October 23rd, 1929?"

"Now you're making fun of me, Professor!" Rose laughed softly. "Why would anybody say that?"

"I beg your pardon, Miss."

Cal snorted quietly and shook his head at their absurd exchange. How the professor managed to sound so genuine was a mystery to him.

Professor Steinberg and Rose then started to chit-chat about the quality of the lunch –that in Rose's eyes was served by a waiter in a curious white uniform -and the importance of good nutrition. "_Mens sana in corpore sano_ - only a healthy body can sustain a sound mind," the professor recited and his sophisticated patient agreed wholeheartedly.

The words rolled from her tongue as beautifully as ever and when Cal closed his eyes for a few minutes, he felt almost as if his life was still the way he once knew it. _Rose and he at a party, where she would discuss fashion with other fine ladies, while the gentlemen were complimenting him on her disarming beauty. How beautiful she was, even at 34..._But naturally, the pleasant illusion didn't last for long.

When Steinberg made the mistake of addressing her as "Mrs. Hockley," she was quick to correct him. "Cal and I aren't married, yet. My name is still DeWitt Bukater," she said, fumbling with her hands. Then, out of nowhere, an idea seemed to cross her mind and she looked distracted, a blissful smile plastered on her face. Cal began to feel physically ill.

"Miss?"

"Huh? Oh, I'm truly sorry, Mr. Steinberg. I was just thinking about how I met a very dear friend of mine." The professor's curious gaze encouraged her to go on. "You know, when I told him my name, he said he had to get me to write that down." She shook her head in amusement. "I had never realized my name was so complicated!"

The professor stroked his beard. "You are talking about Jack Dawson, aren't you?"

The mad woman gave a slight cough, trying without success to hide the blush that was spreading on her face. Whoever that Jack Dawson was, Rose was clearly under his spell.

"Forgive me, _Miss DeWitt Bukater_, but I couldn't fail to note that you were singing and dancing when we came in. Why were you dancing?"

Rose smiled, suddenly lost in thought again. "I was singing and dancing, because... well, I think I just felt like it."

Cal growled audibly, but neither the professor nor his wife was paying much attention to him at this point. To make matters worse, that damned Steinberg's words were still ringing in his ears. _You don't see her, Mr. Hockley_. Under the table, he clenched his fists until his knuckles started to hurt.

"Rose," Cal groaned suddenly, surprised at the sound of his own voice that cut through their jovial conversation like a dagger. "Why are you doing this to me?"

She snapped her head around, staring at him as if she hadn't been aware of his presence until now.

"Rose," he said again, not knowing himself whether it was an order or a plea, "Listen to me." He reached out for her fingers but before his skin could touch hers, she jerked her hand away.

"Fine!" he yelled, offended. "Pull them away, you silly woman! Have you even looked at your hands during the past seven months? Are you still trying to make yourself believe that _these hands_ are the hands of a seventeen year old girl?"

"I don't know what you are talking about, Caledon," she said, again speaking in that stiff voice that she seemed to reserve only for him.

Cal massaged his temples. "You know damn well what I am talking about," he said, only peripherally aware of Professor Steinberg's warning glance. "You betrayed me, didn't you? You might as well say it. You knew a man like Jack Dawson, right? Maybe that was even his real name! And you know what that would mean, Rose? That means you're only _halfway_ insane." He laughed bitterly. "After everything that I've done for you! I even made sure you got treatment in a hospital with an _impeccable_ reputation! Although, on second thought, I realize that my sources may not have been as accurate as I thought..." He paused for a second to look at Professor Steinberg and then focused his attention back on Rose. "And don't you _dare _pretend you were so surprised!"

"But, I... I don't understand. What has gotten into you? Jack Dawson has saved my life last night!"

Cal's head started pounding, her blissfully ignorant tone pushing him dangerously close to the edge. But before he could say anything, the professor took control of the situation. "Mr. Hockley, I strongly advise you to stop talking to her like that!"

Cal shook his head several times like a stubborn child, but did as he was told. Rose's crazy antics were one thing, but seeing the famous Professor Steinberg merrily play along with her was more than he could cope with at the moment. Defeated, he sank down on his chair, the tension flowing out from his muscles like air escaping a balloon.

"Professor, I must apologize for his behavior," Rose said in a hushed voice, "He's been acting _very_ strange, today. Didn't you say you were a neurologist? Maybe you could have a word with him." She cast an unsure look at the man she mistook for her fiancée.

"Don't worry, Miss," he reassured her. "I will talk to him."

_Lovely_, Cal thought, _Now they're allying against me._

Professor Steinberg got up from his chair. "Miss DeWitt Bukater, I hope we can resume this conversation another day."

"Please call me Rose. It's been a pleasure talking to you, Professor."

"The pleasure's been all on my side, Miss Rose." He bowed slightly and then walked out of the room, not before casting a meaningful glance at the sulking steel tycoon.

Cal nodded and followed him. Not that he would have needed the hint; he couldn't stand being in the same room with her for long, anyway. He should have known that trying to reason with her never brought him anything but headaches.

At the door, Cal allowed himself a final look at his wife. Rose had taken a tiny music box from the shelves and started playing with it. She was obviously having a good time; his remarks hadn't even scraped the surface of her delusions. He wanted to say goodbye to her, but she wasn't even looking at him. With a flourish, he closed the door.

Professor Steinberg and were now standing in front of Rose's room, side by side. They didn't look at each other - not even when they talked - but kept staring at the closed door, as if they could see the confused redhead through it.

Cal took a few seconds to mentally brace himself before he asked the question that was burning his tongue. "Now, what do you say, as her doctor? Is he real, this Jack Dawson she keeps thinking about? Is he a figment of her overactive imagination? Or a distorted memory of a previous love affair? I know it sounds preposterous but lately, I wondered... Maybe they've met on the Mauretania or... _somewhere_ else. Couldn't it have been possible for her to start an affair with an artist tramp behind my back?"

The doctor pursed his lips, almost as if he was amused. "If there is one thing that my professional life had taught me, it's that _nothing_ is impossible. Over the years of practice, I have heard of many odd love affairs, much alike the one that your wife might or might not have experienced. But I think that in this case, we should stick to what is likely. Could Rose have made an advance on a man, away from the watchful eyes of her mother, her governess, or other members of the household? I think it's safe to assume that none of these people would have approved of this improper liaison. Correct me if I'm wrong."

Cal slowly shook his head. "No. You're right. She was always surrounded by maids and servants and they'd have informed me if she had been acting secretively." He drew a sigh of relief. She might be insane but at least but at least he could take it for granted that no other man had laid a finger on his spouse.

xxxxx

"I need a drink. Badly," Cal said after they had taken their seats again in the professors' office.

"I'm sorry, but I cannot comply with this request. You haven't touched your coffee yet and I'm afraid it has gotten cold by now. Is there anything else you want me to offer you?"

Cal snorted. "I want a wife who is not crazier than a sack of ferrets!" he remarked drily and to his great surprise, he heard Professor Steinberg chuckle lightly at his comment. He failed to understand why his conjugal misfortune was a laughing matter, but strangely enough, he found himself laughing along with his wife's peculiar doctor.

After the incident in Rose's room, Cal had expected to be confronted with a volley of reproaches and had already thought of an eloquent counterattack that would finally allow him to turn the tables on that obstinate Austrian. However, the professor's attitude towards him was nothing like he had expected, on the contrary. Cal started to wonder if he, perhaps, might be trusted.

"Professor Steinberg, I'd like to ask you a question. Are you married?"

"Oh yes." The professor took a framed photograph from his desk and handed it to Cal. In the picture, a woman in her late forties and three adolescent girls stared at the photographer with awestruck expressions on their youthful faces. "This is my wife and my daughters. I always have to have a picture of them while I'm in my office. Reminds me not to work too late into the evening."

With a stone face, Cal handed the picture to the professor who then put it back on its old spot; not without rearranging the books and manuals that were scattered all over the table to make sure that nothing was blocking the view of his cherished ones.

"As we are on the subject of family, Mr. Hockley... Do your sons know about their mother's troubles?"

Cal shook his head. "And I don't _want_ them to know," he said upon seeing the professor raise his eyebrows. "They're at a boarding school in Lawrenceville. The less they know about what has happened, the better."

"What exactly is it you don't want them to know?"

The millionaire sighed. He was not a young man anymore and the last few hours had clearly taken their toll on him. "Everything in general," he replied and paused for a few second before adding, "and something in particular." He tilted his head to contemplate the ceiling for a short moment, in the faint hope that it would ease his thumping headache. "Do you want to know what happened the night before she went crazy? I told her former doctor we attended a dinner party at a friend's home. It's true we were there! We had spent a wonderful evening. But I... I never told him what happened afterwards."

Professor Steinberg looked only mildly surprised. "Go on," he said and clasped his hands on the desk.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: A big thank you to DreamUpAReality for beta-ing this so quickly and so thoroughly!**

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><p><strong>Chapter 3<br>**

"We arrived at home late, when darkness had already set in. It was a peaceful, quiet night and I had no suspicion that it would proceed any differently than the countless nights before that we have spent in perfect tranquility." Thinking back, Cal allowed himself a faint smile, but his joyful expression was soon overcast.

"Rose was upstairs in her dressing room to change into her nightgown and I had taken a seat in a chair in the parlour. I loved ending the evening with a glass of fine brandy while I waited for my wife to join me.

"But then the door to Rose's private rooms opened and a chambermaid stepped into the parlour, excusing herself and asking me if the lady of the house already finished her evening routine. I was baffled that she was still there at such a late hour and I wondered what happened to make her want to speak to my wife so badly at this time of the day. As it appeared, she had been waiting in Rose's suite for hours. Unsuspicious as I was, I asked the excited girl to confine it to me, which she promptly did, as she too had no concept of the disastrous turn of events her innocent discovery would bring on us. She told me of a wondrous treasure she had found in Rose's part of the mansion that afternoon while she was cleaning the rugs. Then she plunged a hand into her apron to pull out a piece of jewelry. I told her to bring it to me so I could have a closer look at it.

"When I realized what it was I felt like an electric shock was running through my spine. I couldn't believe my eyes! What the good woman held in her hands was the _Heart of the Ocean_! A diamond of almost immeasurable worth that I had given to my wife as an engagement gift!"

Cal had talked himself in a rage and now needed to stop to catch his breath. "Where did she find it?" the professor asked, his eyes gleaming like an archeologist's who was cataloguing artifacts from the tomb of Tutankhamun.

"As you can imagine, this was the first thing I asked her too after finding my voice again. The maid related to me that she had heard a rustling beneath the floor and assuming that a mouse had caused it, started tapping the floor with her shoe to see if the rodent stirred again. It was that way she discovered that one of the floor panels was loose and by lifting it, she found the diamond. Imagine that! A floor panel! The symbol of the love I felt for her, cobwebbed and covered in dust under a loose floor panel! And you know what my dear wife told me?" Cal could not keep himself from laughing scornfully. "She claimed that the diamond was stolen on the _Mauretania_! You should know that I offered it to her during our passage from Southampton to New York seventeen years ago."

"One week before the _Titanic_ left the same harbor," the professor said pensively, "and one month before your marriage. Did you confront your wife after that?"

"Well, you can bet your bottom dollar on that!"

"How did she react?"

Cal took a deep breath, his face contorting into a grimace. "I stormed upstairs into her dressing room. Rose stood before me, half-naked, and when she saw me with the diamond in my hand, she looked shocked and she... covered herself with her hands like this." He crossed his arms in front of his chest, too angry at the moment to feel embarrassment about the intimate details he had revealed. "Now that I think about it, I assume that this made me even more furious than I was before, if that was even possible. For the love of God, she's my wife and I've seen her naked countless times! So I ordered her maid to excuse us, for I had something very important to discuss with my darling spouse."

Cal closed his eyes, reliving the moment in which he flung open the door to his wife's dressing room. _How different she had looked back then__. _When he opened his eyes again, he noticed that Prof. Steinberg was staring at him with a look of pure concentration. Cal was sure that the professor was memorizing every painful detail he revealed about that night with forensic accuracy, although whether he was questioned as a witness or a culprit Cal didn't care about for the time being. "What did you do then?"came Mr. Steinberg's next question.

"I asked her in the calmest voice that I could muster if there was anything she could say in her defense. She shook her head and looked away from me. Then everything happened so fast. I took a step towards her and she flinched, which made me so mad I grabbed her by the shoulders and I asked her again, but she still didn't say anything. She just...turned around very slowly and _glared_ at me through tear-stained eyes.

"I couldn't believe it. I had spent so much time and money to make her a present that suits her and how did she repay me? By lying to me and hiding it under a rug for seventeen years! And who knows how long it would have lain there, hadn't sheer coincidence led to its discovery! All these years she had made a fool out of me! Of _me_, who had felt so badly for her when she had reported it stolen! It represented everything that I felt for her, how much I treasured her and she had looked me straight in the eye and told me that she was sorry she couldn't wear it on our engagement gala!"

"Did you hit her, too?"

"Yes... Yes, I slapped her," Cal said with difficulty, " I slapped her to make her realize her mistake. But then she started struggling and somehow managed to escape my grip and run off to the bathroom. Of course, I ran after her but she locked the door before I could reach it. I yelled myself hoarse but she didn't unlock the door. I heard her sobbing the whole time. And then there was the sound of pouring water. It perplexed me, to say the least! _She can't be taking a bath in a moment like this_, I thought. And then suddenly, everything turned quiet. No sobs, no splashing sounds, _nothing_.

"I waited in front of the door for a while, talking to her, trying to coax her to finally open the door, but she wouldn't reply. It was so quiet on the other side of the door that I started wondering if she was holding her breath. So after I waited like that for some time, thirty minutes at most, I decided to put an end to this silly game of hers and go to sleep. I thought that she would eventually come out, and after that we would talk. Naturally, I was still angry with her, but she knew my temper and had soothed it many times before."

Cal's voice had become more and more raspy. He reached out for the cup of coffee on the tray and took a sip of the cold black liquid. With a slight cough, he cleared his throat and continued his tale, not needing any further prompting from the attentive neurologist.

"When I woke up the next day, her side of the bed was still empty. I searched the house for her, but she was gone without a trace. At last, I checked the bathroom door and to my utter surprise, it was still locked. I immediately called for my valet and together we managed to break the door open. And then we..."By now, Cal was talking so low that his listener had to ask him to speak up.

"I said, we... we found her in the bathtub in her nightgown. Blue-lipped and trembling as the bath water had gotten cold overnight. We quickly lifted her out of the water and wrapped her in a bathrobe. She was wide awake the whole time, but turned her head away whenever I tried to talk to her. We carried her to bed and covered her with thick blankets. She was still trembling like a leaf, but her cheeks had already taken on a little color, so I assumed that the worst consequence of her silly schemes would be a bad cold–a well-deserved one, I should add–and left her to herself.

"I was thinking that she was only toying with me, trying to give me a bad conscience. It wouldn't have been the first time she tried to distract me from her misbehavior by playing the victim! But later that day, I heard her talking to herself. At least that's what I thought until I realized that she was talking to _him_. And then... well... you know how the story went on."

He was sweating; his grey-streaked black hair clung to his forehead and he wiped it away. The moment of silence that followed seemed longer to Cal than it actually was, and the sudden sound of Prof. Steinberg's voice almost made him jump on his seat.

"Let me give you something," the professor said. He walked over to a small wall cupboard next to the door and opened it. It was full of glass tubes filled with all sorts of medication and he blindly, but purposefully pulled out one of the tubes. "Agnes! Bring a glass of water, will you?" he called and went back to his desk.

"Aspirin," he said as he let two of the small white pills drop on Cal's hand, "for your migraine."

The nurse rushed in and out of the office, leaving a glass of water on the desk. Gratefully, Cal took the pills and washed them down with his head tilted back, not stopping until the glass in his hands was empty to the last drop.

"I think you shared a very important piece of information, "the professor said afterward. His voice now came from the direction of the window, prompting Cal to turn his head to the side.

"A part of the puzzle," Mr. Steinberg added. From where he now stood, he had a splendid view of the garden and its old trees that shone golden in the autumn sun. "The picture is still mostly incomplete, but I think we are beginning to see the contours."

"And what is it that we ought to see?" Although the drug had soothed the pain, patience was still wearing thin on Cal.

The professor left his spot at the window and started pacing around the room, only stopping from time to time to fetch a book from his huge collection."Have you ever asked yourself who Jack Dawson is?"

"Jack Dawson? But... a mere hour ago, you said he wasn't real!"

"Not real for us. For _her_, however, he is _very_ real. If we want to understand her condition, we must ask ourselves what he is for Mrs. Hockley."

"Well... From her incoherent accounts I gathered that Jack Dawson is an artist."

"And...?" the professor asked as he took out yet another book from his shelf. He already carried a stack of volumes and was walking with his back slightly bent over because of their weight. Cal was getting more and more irritated by his marching to and fro.

"Rose likes art," Cal said in a slightly annoyed tone of voice. _What was Steinberg trying to achieve with his questions?_

"Indeed. But what else do you think is attracting her to him?"

Cal furrowed his brow skeptically. "He exists only in her imagination and even if that weren't so how am I to know what my foolish wife sees in him?"

Though one part of him was still feeling a strong desire to shun the professor's words he knew this part had lost the upper hand long ago. His mind was reeling like woman in a mad dance and he was sure that if anyone knew the way to silence all these pestering _what if's_ and _why's_ inflicted on his head it must be the very person who had caused them.

Cal liked to think of himself as a businessman through-and-through and as such, he fancied knowing when it was too late to bail out. Whether he liked it or not, he had to grudgingly admit that he needed to hear what Mr. Steinberg had to say. If this wasn't so, why else hadn't he left his office hours ago, slamming shut all the doors behind him and making phone calls to all the right people to assure that the professor never again set foot in a medical institution in this state?

Steinberg let the stack of books drop on his desk with a heavy sigh. "Jack Dawson is an artist and a drifter, and he relishes it. His possessions in the world are very limited, but so are his worries. He is a good-humored fellow, who makes her laugh. He lives life to the fullest, takes each day as it comes to him, and encourages her to do the same. And he's free. Unimaginably so." He made a little pause to let his words sink in.

Realization hit Cal like a cold punch in the guts. _He's the polar opposite of me. He's everything that I am not_.

"Just as you are, I too am convinced that this Jack Dawson is just a figment of her mind," the professor continued his analysis, "I don't think he exists outside of her head, and if he does I doubt that the two are acquainted to each other. He's her emotional anchor in a world devoid of passion. He's the spanner in the works of the machine she feels herself trapped in."

"But..."Cal began before he even knew what to object and set his mind feverishly on the task of finding a weak spot in the professor's argumentation, for there had to be one; of this he was sure. "_Suppose_ you are right," Cal said after a short moment of reflection and- with pretended poise -arched an eyebrow at the professor. "Suppose you are right and Rose's imaginary love affair is an escape she seeks from her life of privilege, _why_ does she meet her prince charming on an ill-fated vessel? As a steerage passenger, his chances of getting on a lifeboat are close to zero! No sane person would wish for such a thing. I know Rose is far from being sane at the moment, but it was you who started to rationalize her fantasies and I just followed suit."

"I will get to this in a moment," the professor said distractedly, as he was still primarily occupied with choosing books from his collection. "It's small," he mumbled, "very easy to miss... Ah, here it is!" With a triumphant expression, he pulled out a small book with a green binding and laid it atop the stack of books on his desk. "There... That should be enough!" He confidently patted the small tower of books at his side. "The answer to your question, Mr. Hockley, is right before your eyes."

Following the unspoken invitation, Cal began to take one book after another from the stack, read the title, frowned, and then put it to the side. "What is this?" he cried out after having looked at about half of them "Is this supposed to be a joke? These are only fictional stories!"


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

"Romantic novels, to be more specific!" Unimpressed by Cal's loudly voiced frustration, the professor took the small green book, opened it and started to read in a deep baritone; his best imitation of on a stage actor's voice, "_From forth the fatal loins of these two foes a pair of star-cross'd lovers take their life; Whose misadventur'd piteous overthrows doth with their death bury their parents' strife_..."

The monologue was accompanied by Cal's increasingly irritated finger tapping. "I know the story of _Romeo and Juliet_," he said, struggling to keep his composure, "You don't have to lecture me about it."

"Then I suppose you're equally familiar with _Wuthering Heights_, _the myth of Pyramus and Thisbe_, _Cyrano de Bergerac_, _Anna Karenina_...?"

"Yes!" Cal answered quickly, before the professor could seize either one of these books from his desk. "Not the kind of literature I prefer, but I am not illiterate! But in which way do these books relate to my wife's illness?"

"Have you never wondered why the stories that we consider the most romantic love stories ever told usually end in death and despair? What do you think makes these tragedies so appealing, in a romantic sense?"

"I don't know," Cal replied, more confused than angry. "Tell me."

"The history of _Romeo and Juliet_ is deeply moving, _because_ their love is doomed, not despite of it. You see," –Mr. Steinberg stretched his hands as if he was imploring him - "The universal theme of love against all odds, and passion breaking the chains of social order strikes deep chords within most readers. Remarkably, this emotional effect is irrespective of gender, age or nationality. It's the story of a love that couldn't be contained or regulated, not even by death itself.

"The menace to Rose's imaginary love, therefore, does not contradict the notion that her fantasies are a psychological outlet for her unfulfilled sexual and emotional needs and her anger towards those who seek to control her and force her to keep those needs contained. On the contrary, it's the catastrophe looming around the corner that makes her feelings all the more poignant. Your wife's fantasies have so much in common with works of fiction, because they are constructed around a powerful example for what one of my Swiss colleagues calls _archetypes_. With your kind permission, I'd like to present her case on the next congress of the _International Psychoanalytical Association_." Cal frowned, but gave a hesitant nod.

Meanwhile, Professor Steinberg resumed his explanation. "Normally, in a healthy individual, archetypal images – like the star-crossed lovers, the hero, the good and the bad mother - give a sense of meaning and purpose. In your wife's case however, the 'self' appears to be possessed by the archetypal idea of star-crossed lovers to a degree where it stops to properly function."He made a short pause. "You don't look convinced, Mr. Hockley."

"Oh trust me, I am. I'm convinced that you are almost as crazy as your patients." Cal tried to look condescending, but succeeded only partially. "I don't understand a single word of this! How exactly is _this_ – whatever you call it - causing her delusions and hallucinations? Why does it cause her to believe in things that are not there?"

"Hmm..." Thoughtfully, the Professor brought his right hand to his mouth like he was holding an invisible pipe. "Let me try to explain it another way. When you took the Aspirin, did it ease your headaches?"

"Um, yes, it did," Cal answered, rightfully surprised, "The pain is almost gone. But what..."

"Excellent. Do you remember when you started to feel relief?"

"Instantly," Cal replied after giving the subject a few seconds of thought."I think I felt instant relief. Or at least within the next three minutes. Now would you mind telling me why this is important?"

The Professor made a dismissive hand gesture. "Please be patient, Mr. Hockley. I will come to that, soon. When was the last time you ate?"

"I had an ample breakfast this morning, right before I left."

"And you took the pills... when was it? Twenty minutes ago?"

Cal nodded.

"Well, then you'll be surprised to hear that the active ingredient of the medication hasn't even entered your bloodstream, yet," Mr. Steinberg said calmly.

"Pardon me?"Cal pulled himself upright on the chair. "Now what is that supposed to mean?"

"No pill can act this fast. It's pharmacologically impossible," Mr. Steinberg patiently explained, "You see, I was trying to demonstrate the power of the unconscious to create and alter bodily sensations, even in healthy individuals such as yourself. You felt the effect of a drug long before it could have naturally occurred." He gave an apologetic shrug of the shoulders that would have seemed disrespectful, had it come from a man younger and less respectable man. "The psyche is a powerful entity and not even I fully understand its functioning. Maybe no man ever will."

Cal listened with a blank expression. There was no biting remark on the tip of his tongue. Instead, he felt strangely empty, as if he had already said everything that was to be said... Everything, but one thing.

"That's all well and good, Professor. I'll admit you got me there. See? I'm not even objecting anything you said. I would be lying if I claimed I understood your methods, but I won't question them again. But tell me one thing." Cal leaned forward on the chair, a sudden flash of hope crossing his features. "When can I take my wife home?"

"Well... I've run tests on her and I can assure you, your wife is not suffering from any physical disease, at least not from one that the most modern medical equipment could detect. The next goal that I have set for her is to regain her former weight. It's not unusual for a gain in weight to have positive effects on the mind, but in the long run, the course of a _dementia praecox_ is hard to predict. Maybe, one day she won't need Jack Dawson any longer. We have to be patient with her..."

Cal shook his head wildly. "That's all you can do for her, Professor? After all this talk about Shakespeare and star-crossed lovers and our marital life? If that's all you can do, well, then your education is nothing more than a bag of cheap conjuring tricks! Do you hear me? All your clever words aren't worth a dime when they cannot bring her back!" He took a deep breath of air to ease the storm in his mind and continued shakily, "I... I understand now that I may not always have treated her the way I should... But I need her! I do! Even if I am the last thing that she needs..."

Steinberg gave him a sympathetic look. "I am deeply sorry. I wish I could do more for you and Mrs. Hockley. All I know is that reproaches or threats won't bring her back. What she needs is a stable environment that the nurses and I are giving our best to provide..." It was hard to tell from Cal's stoic expression if he was listening at all.

When he left the professor's office at last, the nurse, who was assigned to accompany him to the gate, had trouble believing that he was the same man that she had heard yelling and slamming his fist on the professor's desk a mere couple of hours ago.

xxxxx

"Welcome back, Sir." The chauffeur opened the door to the front passenger seat. Without returning the greeting, Cal stepped inside the vehicle.

His valet, a nephew of Lovejoy's, hastily stomped out his cigarette and took a seat in the back of the car. "We are late for your appointment at your broker's office, Sir," he reminded him, once they were on the road. "But I'm sure they will wait for an important client like you."

"Ah yes. The appointment." Cal was looking out of the window, only mildly interested.

He must have displayed a remarkably grim expression, for otherwise, Cal would not know how to explain the worried manner in which his valet addressed him again a few moments later. "Sir? Are you sure you want to do business today? Wouldn't it be more favorable to go home and repose?"

"I don't recall having asked for your opinion," Cal replied moodily. While Lovejoy's successor muttered a brief apology, Cal leaned back in the smooth leather seat cushions, looking even more distressed, now that it had been mentioned.

After a few minutes of shifting uncomfortable in his seat, he thought better of it.

"Driver! I think my valet was right when he remarked that a bit of repose would do me good. Drive me home!"

xxxxx

When he arrived at his big and empty mansion, Cal went straight into the parlour.

Now that all his business meetings have been cancelled or postponed, he at first didn't know what to do with himself. He took a few unsure steps around the room, his fingers striking the silk cover of the chairs and the smooth surfaces of the dark oak cabinets as he passed them by.

Cal remembered the last words that Steinberg had said to him, right before he left his office, and repeated them in a mocking tone, "Take care of yourself, Mr. Hockley."

_Oh, and how I will!_

He stopped next to an ornate silver wall mirror hanging above a waist-high cabinet. Whistling the melody of an irritatingly happy song, he took down the mirror, revealing a hidden opening in the wall. It was filled with bottles – his favorite spirits.

He hardly ever took a sip of the self-made alcoholic beverages that many of his compatriots produced illegally and that were only tolerable when mixed with syrup or cream to mask their horrible taste. _Heaven forbid!_ Cal was lucky enough to have his own collection of 'imported goods'.

After settling on the _Calvados_ – an excellent Brandy - he poured himself a glass, filling it to the rim. Careful not to look at his reflection, he put the mirror back to its place, hiding the Brandy with rest of his illegal spirits.

After this task had been accomplished, his gaze fell on the small cabinet that was in fact a _Victrola_. It was a fine machine, only one year old and unmatched in sound quality. At first, Cal had used it a lot, but he had quickly lost interest until he only played records on festive occasions– something that has, understandably, become very rare during the last seven months. But a fine machine it was!

When Cal opened the cabinet that concealed gramophone and horn as it was custom in modern households, he discovered with a chuckle that a Josephine Baker recording was lying on the turntable. Apparently, Rose had been the last person to have used the _Victrola_. It clearly wasn't his type of music, but he swore to himself to never again play any other recording. No! He was going to leave it there; as a reminder of a joyful past and a promise for a better future.

Following a sudden impulse, he started the device and gently put the needle on the spinning disc.

One of the maids could still be heard bustling in the adjoining rooms and he imagined it was Rose who had so often entertained herself by rearranging her numerous paintings or adding a newly bought one to the collection. He sat down in armchair and took a sip of the brandy, hoping that the combined effect of the alcohol and Josephine Baker would help him to sustain the pleasant fantasy. He welcomed the burning sensation in his throat like a visit of a dear old friend.

Finally, the machine started to sing and Baker's raspy voice filled the room.

"Oh no!" Cal groaned aloud, "Not that goofy singer again! If you can even call her that much since all she ever does is cross her eyes and dance topless in banana leaf skirts!" Since nobody else did, he chuckled about his own snide comment. "She'll never amount to anything. Trust me, sweet pea." He lifted his glass like in a toast and then allowed himself another sip.

"Lovely; now I've started to talk to people who aren't there too. But why aren't you answering me, Rose? Are you strolling about the deck with your Romeo again? Trust me, I'd shoot him, if he weren't in your head, my dear." He held up his hand like a gun and pretended to aim at various pieces of furniture. At last, pointed the gun at his head, moving his thumb like a trigger.

"Bang!"

He let his hand sink again, laughing bitterly. "It strikes me that you are the one to envy and I am the one to pity, you lucky maniac," he lamented, indifferent whether a servant could hear him over Baker's singing. His voice was slurring a little and he already felt a little tipsy, despite the little that he had drunk. _Probably because of the Aspirin, _he mused and quickly emptied his glass, not at all unhappy about this effect.

He closed his eyes and let himself sink into the armchair, breathing in deeply through his nostrils. At some point in time, he must have also released his servants from work, for no single person crossed his path for the rest of the day.

Rose, the way she was when he met her for the first time, appeared before his eyes, dancing and laughing. Eventually, the _Victrola_ must have stopped playing, but he couldn't tell when that had happened. The concept of time was only meant for the living and the sane.

Cal tried to reach for her, touch her, but she escaped his hands with the lightness of a feather blowing in the wind. "Why do you tease me so?"

The girl laughed. Once again, she moved quicker than the middle-aged man whose fingers only clasped the air around the edges of her long revealing nightdress.

"You've lost, _darling_," Rose whispered, barely audible, and her full red lips curved into the sweetest of smiles.

xxxxx

In the early morning of the next day, Cal was stirred by the clicking of the door. The young beauty was gone. His body, laying half on the chair, half on the ground, felt battered and heavy. He tried to stand up, but let himself sink back instantly, as even the smallest movement caused such a shot of pain in his head that he feared it would rip his skull apart.

"Sir?"

He lifted his head slightly to see the chambermaid approaching him with hasty steps.

"No. Don't come." With great effort, he heaved himself up, supporting his weight with the backseat of the chair. "See? I'm fine."

She jerked to a halt in the middle of the room; stopped more by the smell of alcohol and sweat than by her master's orders. The maid was the same woman that found the cursed diamond seven months ago and the same person that tried to calm his wife when her deranged mind couldn't keep her mad thoughts contained any longer.

The good woman hadn't asked any questions since Rose's departure, and her discretion had ultimately saved her position. Her job at the mansion was to keep Rose's rooms clean and presentable, as if her return from her 'vacation in England' as Cal used to tell curious acquaintances was in fact expected any time.

Now, she didn't dare to move an inch from position. "Is there anything I can do for you, Sir?" she asked tentatively.

Cal pondered her question for a few seconds.

"Yes." He pulled himself together as best as he could. "I want you to go to Mrs. Hockley's room, take a couple of paintings from the walls and wrap them in paper. When my valet arrives, give them to him, so he can safely transport them to my wife."

"Of course, Sir!" The maid nodded eagerly. "She must have missed her pictures so much!"

"Certainly more than she has missed me."

The maid looked taken aback, but then relaxed her features, probably deciding to take his last statement for a joke. "Which paintings do you want to send her?"

"Umm... choose the ones she liked the most," Cal answered, realizing that he didn't even know which of them she kept on her walls. He usually avoided looking at them.

Fortunately, the maid was more familiar with his wife's taste than he. She just gave another quick nod and then rushed off to get to work.

Cal sighed and let himself drop back in the chair. He closed his eyes, hoping for sleep to come and replace the bleakness of his days with a maelstrom of redheaded fairies and words without meaning.

**END**

* * *

><p><strong>AN: All names of singers, writers, organizations, brands and books that have been mentioned in this chapter belong to real people, real organizations, real brands and real works of fiction, respectively. Dementia praecox is a historic term for schizophrenia. Steinberg's character is loosely based on the life and work of Sigmund Freud (1856 – 1939) and Carl Gustav Jung (1875 - 1961). **

**To all readers: I hope you had as much fun reading this strange piece of fanfiction as I had writing it! A big thank you to all of you who alerted, favorited or (even better!) reviewed this story! And last, but not least, special thanks goes to DreamUpAReality, who not only beta-ed every chapter of this fic, but also happens to be the author of one of my favorite stories on this site: "Titanic, A Life Journey II"! I feel honored to have her as my beta-reader and I think she did a terrific job!**


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